


when the lights cut out

by Sometimesyoufly (faile02)



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:53:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faile02/pseuds/Sometimesyoufly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She has nightmares. Infrequent, but consistent. In them, there's fire and a growling voice and glass raining down in sheets. Darcy can never run fast enough, and some nights it's Jane she can't save, or Erik, or the tiny child standing in the way. On a good night, it's her own life and Darcy wakes up before the screaming starts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when the lights cut out

She has nightmares. Infrequent, but consistent. In them, there's fire and a growling voice and glass raining down in sheets. Darcy can never run fast enough, and some nights it's Jane she can't save, or Erik, or the tiny child standing in the way. On a good night, it's her own life and Darcy wakes up before the screaming starts. 

She's lucky she lives alone, first in her own trailer in New Mexico, then her own tiny bunk in Tromso, and now the small apartments that SHIELD gave out. The bare white walls and chill air aren't a help against sweaty skin and panicked breathing, but at least she's in her own space. Darcy knows the nightmares can't be too bad; she's never been loud enough to wake anybody nearby, though she'd certainly upset a roommate. 

It something she's grown used to, in the months after the Destroyer, and the Battle of New York, and the moving around with Jane. Darcy doesn't talk about it, though. She has exactly two friends who know what happened, and she can't exactly go up to Jane with a "Hey, I know your boyfriend practically died and then vanished through a wormhole, but I'm having bad dreams". And Erik has it even worse than Jane, with the whole 'being possessed by our enemy' bit he went through. Darcy supposes there are therapists that SHIELD keeps on payroll, but she never really liked talking to strangers.

Instead, she wakes with a short scream, bolting out of bed. Darcy takes a moment to splash some cool water on her face, and tie back her hair. She eyes her small kitchen, chrome appliances and no personality, and frowns. Instead, Darcy pads down the long hallway to the small kitchenette/common space they share with a few of the other SHIELD agents with similar security clearance. She likes the mess; the broken coffee pot on the counter, mixed magents from various restaurants. Someone keeps it stocked with chips and coffee and poptarts, enough that she can appreciate the feel of living people. It's quiet, and has a rather large window, so Darcy makes a cup of warm milk and honey, and just sits until she's so tired, she can't keep her eyes open. Some nights, she sits until the sun rises and she has to start her day. At least the daylight keeps the dreams away.

It's the third night in one week that Darcy is tucked up on the little couch, counting the yellow New York taxi cabs below them, when she's joined by Hawkeye. She knows him. Remembers him from Puente Antiguo, where they were just barely becoming friends. He taught her to play darts before he was whisked off with Erik. Darcy's heard the rumors, he was no better off than Erik, maybe even worse. This is the first time she's seeing him since, and all things considered, Clint Barton looks terrible. Still, Darcy offers him a small smile, and makes room on the couch.

He flops into the space next to her, sprawling and just barely in her personal space. She doesn't mind. She's too tactile herself to be bothered when another person is close enough to give off body heat. A causal touch is one of her favorite things about friendship. Darcy is quiet though, the mug warm in her hands as she counts to herself. She can hear Clint breathing next to her, a little too loud to be natural and wonders if she should say something, just before he breaks the silence. 

"Can't sleep?" Clint asks, a rueful chuckle tacked on at the end. 

"That would be a 'no'," Darcy says, shrugging. "I'm assuming you can't either, unless you like to roam the halls at half past 4."

"Nah. I save the Nearly Headless Nick act for Halloween only." There's a grin on Clint's face, but a shadow in his eyes. He looks haunted, the same dark circles that mar Erik’s face, on a daily basis. Darcy rewards the poor joke with a laugh, and reaches over to pat Clint’s arm. She almost doesn’t notice the flinch, wouldn’t have even known it happened, except she’s looking for it. Erik flinches now, too. 

Darcy saves him the effort of explaining, doesn’t even mention it happened. She just hums lightly, looking out over the city. “It’s amazing, how New York never seems to stop. So different from back home. Everything there closed promptly at 10, except that one diner miles down the road.” It’s easy to ramble, lack of sleep making her slightly silly, adding to her need to comfort people, even somebody she only knows from cheap tequila in a seedy bar and a game of darts. Clint just sits next to her, and maybe Darcy imagines that he’s letting her voice sooth him, but when she falls silent, it's calm, neither of them feeling the need to fill it in. Quietly, she hands him her cooling cup of milk, sharing the comfort it brings.

***

It's a thing they do. Sometimes it's Darcy meeting Clint at the couch, sometimes Darcy is there first, two cups of warm milk waiting. It doesn't do much, but it's a ritual for them now. They talk, sometimes it's deep and sometimes it's silly, but Darcy finds she's enjoying trying to piece together the man that Clint Barton claims to be. She already knows there are things he's hiding from, parts of his past he won't ever talk about. It's hard not to push, but Darcy knows better. Everybody is allowed their secrets, and one day, she hopes he'll share them with her. 

She takes to waiting until the worst of the shaking has passed, before she pads out to the living room. Clint never seems any more worse for wear than normal, and Darcy thinks that maybe he doesn't wake up in a cold sweat like she does. Maybe he just never sleeps. 

Now, when they share the couch, there is no separation of personal space. Darcy's feet are in Clint's lap, his hands rest on her bare legs. They laugh together and play cards. Clint teaches her how to cheat at poker, and Darcy teaches him how to play kings, and they pretend like they're both completely normal people from the hours of 2am through 6. 

***

Darcy wakes with a start, her whole body shaking with lingering terror. There's no thought, she merely jumps out of bed and runs out of her rooms, throws herself into the arms of a suddenly worried Clint. He's known, of course, that something kept his girl up, but Darcy never said, and he never asked, and now all he can do is hold Darcy against him, rubbing his hand down her trembling back, as soothing as he can be. Clint's never been very good at the comfort part of a friendship, never really knows what to say, but he does know he's strong, and hopes that strength is enough to make her feel safe. 

When the shaking stops, Darcy tilts her head up, looking at Clint with eyes wide, pupils dilated with lingering fear. "You died," she says, her voice small and quiet. At that moment, Clint understands exactly what Darcy dreams about. He's had the same, even if now, years later, they're about killing, not dying. Her small hands are gripping his shirt, creasing the fabric, holding on like he's going to disappear at any moment. 

"Hey," Clint says, keeping his tone light and steady. Reassuring. "I'm right here. Totally fine, Pipsqueak." He's not sure if it helps; if anything, Darcy curls in, like she's trying to share his skin. What the hell, Clint thinks, and pulls her into his lap, gathers her up even closer. One hand comes up, runs a finger down her cheek and under her chin. Clint tilts her head up, meets her eyes, and kisses her.

There's a moment where Darcy stops moving, and Clint is about to pull away, before she makes a noise and surges up, into the kiss. Her arms wrap around Clint's neck, holding on for dear life, his arms around the small of Darcy's back, pulling her as close to him as he can. Somewhere between stealing the breath from Darcy's lungs and licking into her mouth, Clint finally understands that they've been building up to this kiss for weeks. Every night of tickled feet and pokes to the rib had just been one more step up the ladder leading to this very kiss. He grins against her mouth, following Darcy as she pulls away slightly. 

"Clint," she says, her voice a breath of air against his cheek. Darcy traces fingers along the line of his nose, across cheekbones, mapping out his lips. Clint attempts to nip at her fingers, catches one in his mouth and swirls his tongue around it. He can hear the hitch in her breath, a playful laugh, before her hand is gone and she's moving, straddling Clint's lap, hands cupping his face as Darcy leans down and kisses him again. It's a kiss with purpose, her teeth catching his lower lip, drawing out a groan. Hands skate down Darcy's spine, resting on slim hips. There isn't much clothing in the way, her sleep tank and shorts doing little to cover Darcy's body. It's easy to slip hands under the light cotton, feel the delicious warmth of bare skin. 

"Maybe," Clint manages to say, "We should go somewhere private."

Not once in the weeks that they've been camping out in the room have they interacted with another person, but Darcy knows that it's SHIELD, and they probably have cameras and super spies hiding around the corner and honestly, she doesn't care where they go, as long as it's someplace with a flat surface. She nods, lips pressing kisses into the the crook of Clint's neck, her tongue flicking his ear lob. There's a hiss of indrawn air, and Darcy tucks that knowledge away.

The hands on her waist slide down, grip her ass, and Clint is standing, holding Darcy up. She squeals, clamping her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck. "Don't drop me, hot shot," she murmurs. 

Her room is closer, the door just barely latched from Darcy's sprint across the hallway. Clint opens it with one hand, kicks it shut with his foot. Before Darcy can process, he has her back against the wood, his mouth on her neck. Using her legs, Darcy pulls him closer, rolling her hips with the movement. Clint makes a strangled noise, low in his throat, before biting down on bare skin. It's more gentle than Darcy expects, even as she grasps at his shoulders. He’s holding her too high for her to reach properly, her hands trying to tug him up for a kiss. Darcy whines just a bit, can feel Clint chuckle against her skin, licking the bite marks. It’s easy to tilt her head, giving him access to her neck, inviting him closer. There will be marks in the morning, even later that evening, she knows. Darcy doesn’t care. 

What she cares about is touching Clint, and there is too much clothing in the way for her liking. Grabbing a handful of shirt in her hands, Darcy tugs on it, trying to pull it off. Her whines grow louder, the word “off” mixed somewhere inside it. Clint knows he can’t hold her up and take off his shirt at the same time, and lifts her again, this time looking for a countertop she can sit on. The couch is closer, two steps to the left and Darcy is being dropped onto soft cushions, and she grins in triumph when Clint’s soft gray tee is finally thrown across the room.

Leaning over her, Clint matches her grin, kissing her softly. One of his hands comes up to stroke her cheek bone, amusement in his eyes while Darcy runs her hands over his chest, drawing shapes over the lines of solid muscle. She looks him over, naval to nose, and back again. He’s perfect and suddenly she’s nervous of the hands slowly pulling her shirt up. Clint must notice the sudden tenseness; he stops and leans down, kissing her softly. 

“Okay?” he says, hands running up and down her sides, soothing her. 

Darcy nods, meeting his kiss. “Okay. Just... it’s been a little while.” Her cheeks tint pink with the confession, her eyes looking everywhere but at Clint. He just chuckles, and kisses her again.

“That’s cool, babe. I’ll take care of you.” Her top is gone after that, tossed someplace to the floor, and now it’s Clint’s turn to look at the lines and curves that make up the swell of Darcy’s body. She’s pretty sure the smirk on his face could be considered a leer, but it makes her giggle, the last of the tension draining from her body even as one of Clint’s hands moves up to cup a breast, rolling her hardened nub between his fingers. Darcy gasps, arching her back into the touch. Now she’s sure he’s leering, but the expression is hidden a moment later, when Clint leans down, trailing a line of kisses from the crook of her neck, along the hollow of her throat, down to her breast. His mouth finds her, sucking, swiping his tongue in a large circle. A noise escapes from Darcy’s throat; she can feel Clint’s grin against her skin, his sure fingers sliding down to the hem of her shorts. 

Darcy lays back, letting Clint slowly ease her shorts down, fabric gliding down one leg, then the next, his hands following. There’s no hesitation when her panties follow, her nerves calmed. She’s naked, running her fingers through Clint’s short hair, reveling in the warmth of his hand on the swell of her hip. She wants to feel him, even if it’s just against her body. Tugging on his hair, Darcy urges Clint up, kisses him as his fingers ghost over her stomach, resting on soft skin. The buttons on his jeans take Darcy a minute, giggles escaping as she finally undoes them, slips a hand between fabric to grip his hardness. 

Groaning against Darcy's skin, Clint sits up, ignoring her sound of protest, to pull his jeans and boxers off, pooling them somewhere on the floor. He grins down at her, leans forward to kiss her, nipping at her bottom lip. Hands are everywhere, touching smooth skin, drawing circles over heated flesh. Clint's hands part her thighs, sliding between slick skin, finding that spot of sensitive skin, drawing out a low moan from Darcy’s lips. 

His fingers are deft, full of experience and ego, an advantage he uses, bringing Darcy quickly to the edge, laughing at her indrawn breath, her muscles clenching around his fingers as she falls. Her small hands clutch at Clint's biceps, leaving imprints of her nails in his skin. It's easy to kiss her through end of her orgasm, letting Darcy come down, her kisses turning from frantic to lazy. Clint likes her smile, slow and wide and open, like a cat. He almost matches it, shifts slightly above her to smooth her hair away from her sweaty forehead.

Darcy blinks up at him, feels his hard length pressed against her thigh. Some corner of her rational mind appreciated his willingness to take care of her first. The other part just wants to feel him inside her. She shimmies out from under him, using her coffee table as leverage, smiling at Clint's quirked eyebrow. Gently, Darcy pushes him backwards, looks down at his naked form, and frowns slightly. 

"Stay there," she orders, and disappears into her bedroom. It only takes her a few moments, she returns with a small foil package between her fingers and Clint laying on the couch with an amused smirk on his face. 

"Round 2?" Darcy grins, holding the condom up, red, white, and blue catching on the light. Clint starts to nod, stops, and tilts his head. He leans up, off the couch, grabbing Darcy's arm with a slight tug, catching her as she falls on top of him. He plucks the package from her hand, raises both eyebrows in question. 

"Really, Darcy?" She can taste the sarcasm in his tone, starts giggling before Clint even finishes, "You own Captain America condoms? Seriously?"

"What better protection could a girl ask for?" Darcy laughs, kissing the smirk off his face, as she sits up, and slides backwards. Clint shuts up the moment she starts to move, his laughter trading out for a groan when his cock presses against the crook of Darcy's ass. 

If anything, her grins grows wider, as she leans forward, grabs the condom from him to open the package, and roll it down Clint's erection. He makes a strangled noise, hips jerking up involuntarily, and Darcy giggles again. She shifts, kissed him, and brings one of his hands to hold himself, guiding his cock inside her. Darcy gasps with his initial push, slowly settling against his body, letting him fill her. The stretch is welcome, a fullness she hadn't felt in a long time. They’re still as Darcy catches her breath, before she rolls her hips, letting the clench of Clint's fingers on her thighs lead her. It's not long before her movements reach a steady pace, Clint thrusting up to meet her. She can feel her climax building, pries one of Clint's hands away from her hips to place it on a breast. It's instinct, him cupping the welcome weight, flicking at the nipple. Darcy's hips move faster, her mouth open as she draws in gasps of air, the friction of their bodies perfectly matched, pulling her closer and closer, her movements shuddering.

Clint shifts his hand over, between her legs, helping her along, laughing as Darcy arches back, hips jerking around his cock, clutching him tightly inside her slick heat. His own hips thrust up once, twice, coming with a loud groan, buried inside her. Clint falls back on the couch, helps Darcy to curl up against his chest, the pair of them limp and sweaty. His hands are idle in her hair, twirling a curl around his fingers, Darcy drawing shapes along Clint's rib cage. 

They lay there for a long moment, before Clint taps her side. "Let me up, sweetheart. Gotta take care of the condom." There's a murmur of protest, Clint can tell she's close to sleep. "Come on, let's clean up, and then you can go to bed."

Darcy sighs, and sits up, wincing slightly as Clint's cock slips out. She stands, feeling the twinge of unused muscles. She'll be sore in the morning. Clint is in the bathroom a moment later, leaving Darcy frowning down at the pile of clothing on the floor of the living room. She waves it off, pads to her bedroom, pulling the blankets back, and waits for Clint, who leaves the bathroom looking unsure. Darcy thinks it's adorable. 

"Left or right side?" 

He blinks, "What?"

"Left side. Or right side?" She says it slowly, like she thinks he doesn't understand her. 

Clint shakes his head, his lip curling up in a smirk. "Right side." And then he's leaping over her, launching himself into her bed, pulling her down in a rain of limbs.

"Clint!" she shrieks, and he starts to tickle her, pinning her down and kissing her laughter away. "It's bed time. I'm tired."

The tickling subsides, Clint settling back into her pillows, lets Darcy curl up against his chest, blanket pulled up to her chin. She kisses him one last time, and he watches her eyes close, her breathing even out. Darcy's asleep in minutes, suddenly seeming small compared to Clint's large frame. He wonders, as sleep eludes him, if this a bad idea, if he's going to ruin her like so many other women, but then she snuffles, murmurs something that he can't quite make out but the fear is clear in her tone. He runs a hand down her spine, soothing her, whispers her name and kisses her forehead. Darcy settles almost instantly, and maybe, Clint thinks, as his eyes drift close, he's not the worst thing that ever happened to Darcy Lewis. 

***

Darcy wakes up to a heavy arm thrown over her stomach and a nose buried in the crook of her neck. Their legs are tangled, and one of her arms is asleep, but she thinks for the moment, before the urge to pee and the anxiety of morning breath wash over her, that she hasn’t ever been this comfortable. Gently, Darcy runs her fingers along the smooth line of Clint’s spine, lets out a little breath of air that substitutes for laugh when he makes a clearly disgruntled noise. She does it again, grinning as Clint shuffles away from her fingers, flopping over on the other side of the bed. It frees Darcy up, and she carefully climbs out of the bed to take care of things in the bathroom. 

She’s brushing her teeth when she first notices the bruises down her neck. There’s a smile on her face, even though Darcy knows it’s going to be a bitch to hide at work. The tile floor is cold on her bare feet, goosebumps forming on her unclothed skin. It’s all Darcy can do not to jump back into the bed; instead she slides back in, pulling the blankets around her chilled body. The bed shifts, hands rubbing her arms, warming her skin. Darcy grins, and wiggles backwards, letting Clint pull her against his chest, his arm draped over her side, one finger rubbing small circles. Humming, Darcy closes her eyes, feels Clint press a kiss on the top of her head, and drifts back to sleep.

***

They don’t spend every night together, but enough where Darcy starts to wonder if they're dating. He takes her out to the movies, to dinner when he's not on a mission. She gets random text messages, a photo of somebody doing something stupid, the alley cat S.H.I.E.L.D. adopted. It's not perfect; sometimes they fight, sometimes they laugh it off, and sometimes they storm away from each other, only to reappear hours later in apology. 

They never talk about it, never finalize anything, but when he spends the night, Clint’s always there in the morning, making coffee or sometimes breakfast. Darcy likes it; enjoys getting ready for work with sounds of somebody in the kitchen, waking up on weekends to strong hands on her skin. And while the nightmares don’t ever really seem to stop, Clint’s always there when she wakes.

**Author's Note:**

> The [condoms](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v12/Faile02/9a8037f6-faf5-491a-8626-e0c640246985_zps945a42b4.jpeg) that Darcy has are real, though I don't know where you can buy them. Title is from Arcade Fire's "We Used to Wait."


End file.
